


While The Sun (Doesn't) Shine

by shihadchick



Category: Hey Monday
Genre: AU, Multi, Other, Regency, cross-dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-12
Updated: 2011-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-15 23:33:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Regency pastiche, of questionable morality and taste, wherein a gentleman's secretary (and ex-spy), his childhood friend (a Lady of Quality) and the aforementioned gentleman find more secrets than lies on a rainy afternoon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	While The Sun (Doesn't) Shine

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to _quizzical_ and the_antichris for the most excellent of rapid-fire betaing.  
> Note: And by pastiche I mean pastiche; the phrasing is as close to historical romances of my experience as I can make it, but further anachronism may have snuck in anyhow. Written for the 2011 [No Tags](http://community.livejournal.com/users/no_tags) fic exchange.

Cassadee is perhaps the least strait-laced person that Alex has ever met. It's not just that he knows her secrets - so far as he knows, he's the only one to know all her secrets - it's simply inherent in her, the way she acts and speaks and moves. However, knowing that intellectually had not even remotely prepared him for this situation.

Bad enough, to lose control of himself for a split second, to engage in a liberty he'd sworn never to take with her; bad enough to turn playful wrestling in the hayloft - of all the cliches - into tilting her face up to his to kiss, bad enough to take advantage of her in so fraught a situation.

Worse still for it to happen immediately under the eyes of their friend --his employer-- Mr Moriarty. He's told Alex and Cassadee more than once to call him Jersey; that is of course, far easier said than done, an almost unthinkable intimacy with the man who provides Alex' lodgings and paycheck, who treats Cassadee with such careful courtesy even as he believes her to be simply Alex's friend Mr Pope, a gentleman residing nearby in the county.

Alex goes stone-still, his hand frozen on Cassadee's face, feeling his stomach start to collapse in on itself. He has no idea what is going to happen now, and every idea of how this must look; of what Mr Moriarty must think of them. They're sprawled full length on the stack of hay pitched down from the loft, where they'd rolled with thankfully no harm done, innocently as children -- if not for the damning pose they're in. If nothing else, he is miserably certain that he is about to lose his position, and that at the very least; he must call himself lucky if it's that alone. His innards curl up and he wishes he could hide his face, unsure of his ability to disguise his feelings at this moment, and entirely unwilling to witness what Mr Moriarty must say and think of this.

It's horribly worse, of course, for all the furtive midnight thoughts he's had of Mr Moriarty as well; wrestling with himself and wondering, wishing he could reconcile those desires with his other, equally unfortunate, if more obviously natural ones.

It would have been Alex's worst nightmare, if only he'd been broad-minded enough to imagine such a catalogue of horrors befalling himself.

(And after all this, he hadn't even got to kiss the lady, yet. He knew he shouldn't even be thinking of that right now, but he aches to know himself damned for an act he hasn't even been able to realize.)

"Care to explain this, Mr Lipshaw?" Mr Moriarty asks, his tone dry and his face hidden, the lantern-light not nearly enough for Alex to read his expression reliably at this distance.

Alex struggles to his feet, setting Cassadee back on hers with care, unable at this moment to treat her with the usual cavalier manner he assumes to bolster her disguises, all too aware of her femininity at this moment, and the host of socially ingrained requirements associated therewith.

Alex opens his mouth to say something - anything - and for once, the brilliant stream of lies with which he's assured his longevity and freedom --and, on more than one occasion, the sheer unscathed condition of his hide-- is absolutely nowhere to be found. He cannot think of a story to save himself, nothing to explain what Mr Moriarty must have seen; not even to save Cassadee can he craft a convincing tale, because the only acceptable explanation is that which is true, and in this situation, the truth would trap the both of them more surely than any falsehood.

"Forgive us," Cassadee says, her voice even rougher than usual, and her breathing coming fast and uneven. With the binding she must wear under her vest and shirtsleeves, it must naturally be more difficult to catch her breath. Especially in this moment of stress. Alex has never seen the binding, of course, but he has seen the evidence of it; in the differences between her self as she visits them on the estate, and herself as she is at home, in petticoats and muslins, all curves and smiles and flour dusted upon her nose. "I would have come in to greet you, Mr Moriarty, but I wished to come in out of the rain and dry off first, and I apologize, but we fell into some unseemly rough-housing. I don't believe there's any damage to your livestock or your feed, sir."

Alex takes a moment, in the privacy of his own head, to marvel at her courage and sheer impudence to think quickly enough to try to play this off; to give Mr Moriarty the chance to forget what he'd seen or to deny it. Alex's relationship with Cassadee might be irreparably damaged, but her reputation would be safe, at least, and while Mr Moriarty would obviously never trust Alex again, he would at least most likely not be left out on the streets.

"Mr Pope," Jersey says, bowing fractionally to her, and damn it all, Alex still can't see his face. Perhaps he doesn't truly want to. He had almost hoped, after all- And now he cannot even meet his eyes. "Mr Lipshaw. I- my apologies."

Alex's head flies up at that, wholly unexpected.

Moriarty is the one avoiding both their faces now, staring at his boots in apparent fascination. "I am intruding. I did not intend to- ah, I believe I had some correspondence to attend to in the house. Perhaps you will stop by at a later date, Mr Pope? I do hope you will believe me when I say I enjoy your company, of course, but I must be off. Now."

Moriarty turns on his heel after that awkward little speech, and makes for the stable door, almost tripping in his haste. Alex just stares, uncertain of what to make of this. Inasmuch as he could prepare, he was prepared for anger, scorn, disgust. Not this, whatever this is. There's no question in his mind that Mr Moriarty saw, and that he leapt to some kind of conclusion, but what that might be and what he's made of it-- Alex is entirely at sea.

The same cannot be said of Cassadee, however, for she springs forward, her hand closing around Mr Moriarty's upper arm as he grips the doorknob, his flight almost a fait accompli.

"And where do you think you're going?" Cassadee asks, her tone and accent dropping at least two social classes to something more like that of their less reputable childhood playmates. Alex feels his eyes widen further. He's not sure what's happening here now, completely at loose ends, but he has to admire her speed and reflexes, because while he cannot begin to explain how, he's mortally certain that letting Mr Moriarty leave just then would have been a bigger mistake than anything he's ever thought of doing with Cassadee.

Mr Moriarty will not turn to face them, which strikes Alex as deeply wrong. The moral high ground here is all his: why should he be ashamed to face them, when they should be the ones cowering?

"I do not wish to intrude," he repeats, voice low, defeated -- broken? Alex feels something hot and uncertain start to uncurl in tiny, violent tremors in his chest, and he suspects it may be hope.

"Mr Moriarty," Cassadee starts, letting go of his arm in order to clasp Moriarty's hand in both of hers, drawing him back to face them, her grip not the strongest, necessarily, but completely uncompromising. "Jersey," she starts again, having clearly come to some of the same conclusions as Alex. This situation calls for- not familiarity, but intimacy. "Please, don't- we have been such great friends, the three of us. Surely you- I cannot abide your leaving, thinking what you must."

Alex feels cold shame rush through him again; he had taken advantage, had known it to be wrong and had moved anyway; perhaps Cassadee does not wish to be alone with him again (ever?), perhaps she has made the choice that he could not ever even articulate, and has not chosen him -- although to make any sort of approach to Mr Moriarty would, in fact, necessitate far more explanations than he thinks she's quite prepared for tonight.

This horrible supposition is chased away almost as fast as it had reared its ugly head, however, because Cassadee knocks her shoulder into his, jerks her chin towards Mr Moriarty in a gesture of unmistakeable command, and obedient to her as ever (some habits are just too hard to break), Alex takes Jersey's arm and leads him away from the door. They settle on one of the thicker hay bales, on to the cloak that Cassadee had spread out to dry upon her arrival. The damp fabric had kept Alex and Cassadee away from it during their childish rough-housing, and as such, it's the only one in that area which is not somewhat the worse for wear.

"We must speak," Cassadee says firmly, and Alex tries to cling to some conviction that she knows what she's doing; that this can somehow, impossibly, be all right.

Mr Moriarty looks up at them properly then, and Alex is stunned by what he sees in his face. There's hurt and betrayal, oh yes, but not nearly in the ways that he had imagined.

"I do not wish to come between you," Mr Moriarty says carefully. "I know it's- perhaps not the expected notion, for a gentleman. But I had hoped- please believe that I would not ever bring myself to betray any secrets I may have inadvertently stumbled upon. My honor is sufficient unto that, at least. You'll forgive me if I cannot give you my blessing."

He chokes a little on that last, and Alex is stunned by the conviction that it is envy which constricts his usually fluent speech, and not disgust. He's never known Mr Moriarty to bring home conquests of either gender, had no inkling that his inclinations ran any way other than the usual.

"I think you misunderstand," Cassadee says firmly, and oh, no, Alex knows that tone; has known it most of his life. That is Cassadee about to do her worst, about to take life in both hands and leap.

Sometimes that has led to running pell-mell through the village, away from shrieking bakers who could not care less if Cassadee is the daughter of their absent lord, merely that she and her rapscallion playmate have just made free of their freshly baked pies. Sometimes it's led to broken bones and sleepless nights, as Cassadee tried to prove (or disprove, as it turned out) her governess' tales of Daedalus and Icarus.

Sometimes it leads to Cassadee leaning in to press a firm and far too experienced-looking kiss to Jersey Moriarty's lips, in the middle of his stables, in the midst of a summer rainstorm.

Alex can do no more than stare.

"Now, what were you saying?" Cassadee asks, a hectic flush on her cheeks, and Alex does not know what to do.

Jersey raises a hand to brush over his lips, and does not seem able to look away from Cassadee.

"I had not thought to- hope, that, but-" he trails off, into confusion. "Alex- please, say something?"

"See?" She says, turning to Alex, and prodding a finger into his chest. It actually hurts. "He would kiss you, too, if you were only not so stubborn as to refuse to ask."

Alex wants, abruptly, to sit down. His life has taken far too many twists and turns in merely the last hand of the clock and it's starting to make him dizzy. Perhaps this is why ladies of gentle birth swoon so often. He can't say that he cares for the feeling, particularly. He knows full well the earth under the stables is solid, no creaking boards covering hollows or passageways, so why should it feel so remarkably unsteady?

Moriarty looks about the same, and vaguely ill to boot. Alex hopes that that's not due to kissing Cassadee- having been kissed by Cassadee, rather; it would be a fine thing for them to cleared the first hurdle, and to then have Moriarty turn around and challenge her for taking liberties with him.

This whole situation is making Alex's head hurt. Rather worse than it had done before now, even.

"I cannot help but feel there is something afoot here which eludes me," Moriarty says, at last, after a silence which stretches for far too long, weighing heavily on all concerned.

Cassadee sighs heavily. "Really, must I do all of the work?"

She steps back, all the better to see them both, and for once, there is no hidden laughter in her expression.

"You," she says, pointing to Moriarty, "have been mooning after Alex for months now, and too damned stubborn to say anything about it."

"And you," she jabs Alex in the chest again, and this time he winces, and takes a step back. Which leaves him alarmingly close to Jersey. Moriarty. _Jersey_. "Have been making cow-eyes at him for just as long, and frankly, I'm wearied of having to watch and bite my tongue. It's clear neither of you are the type to-" she seems to mentally reject whatever phrase had initially sprung to mind, thank goodness, because knowing Cassadee it would most likely have been shocking, "fuss over it being a gentleman and not a lady."

"Cass-" Alex protests, stung at last into action, and forgetting her cover for the very first time. "You cannot say such things! And just because Mr Moriarty did not strike you for your impropriety does not mean that he would not- that he would-" Alex cannot bring himself to verbalize the rest of that thought; he's already too close to admitting the secret he's been hiding close to his chest these past months, too far gone to keep it bundled up as tightly as he knows he must.

She shrugs, looking between the two of them. "If I may be so impertinent, then-- Jersey, would you kiss Alex, and take him to bed, if he were willing?"

Thoroughly put on the spot, Moriarty rises to the occasion with considerable aplomb.

"Yes," he says, having clearly taken a moment to think it over, and then having just as clearly decided to leap after that one judicious look. "If he would have me."

"Of course," Alex says, feeling quite as stunned as the proverbial fish. "But I never- it would be so unseemly, I'm your _secretary_ , and the events of my service abroad are known to many of your set, we could never hope-"

Jersey seems to regain some composure then, is surer of himself. "There is always hope, Lipshaw. Perhaps... perhaps even, enough hope."

He turns to Cassadee then, who stills, having been quite clearly in the process of making herself scarce.

"Mr Pope," he says, "you've been quite perspicacious this evening. And thoroughly modern. I wonder, given the scene into which I introduced myself this evening, if I may propose something... even more outré."

Cassadee actually freezes, this time; Alex can see that she is holding her breath. Helplessly, he finds himself doing the same.

Jersey holds his hand out to her, clasps it around her forearm and tugs her closer; back to him and back to Alex.

"We three have had such fine times," he says, whisper-soft. "Perhaps that means more than we quite wished to admit, until now."

"I," Cassadee says, her face completely unguarded now. "I never meant this, I only wished for you to be happy."

Her voice is not disguised nearly so well as usual now, the stress of the situation bleeding through, although Jersey does not seem to have noticed.

"And how could we be happy if you were not?" Alex says, finally feeling as if he has a grip on this now, a confidence firmly bolstered by Jersey's other hand lowering to his waist, holding him warm and close.

"This is dreadfully romantic," Cassadee says, and then, in unison with Alex, "and I do mean dreadful."

"I must admit," Jersey says, "that I wish to kiss you - properly - nearly as much as I must confess to wanting to see you kiss one another. And since I've been blessed with at least a shadow of the former..." he trails off invitingly.

Alex looks over at Cassadee, and decides the hell with propriety. He cups his hands about her face and draws her close, kissing her softly and tenderly.

His observation of her kiss with Jersey was not incorrect; she has clearly done this before, and he swallows a jealous desire to ask with whom she has been exchanging kisses and a matching urge to beat the mystery man.

"Lipshaw?" Jersey says, when Cassadee and Alex finally break apart. There is an invitation in his tone that Alex cannot even begin to imagine declining.

"Alex, please," he corrects, and then leans in for his own kiss, enjoying the pressure of Jersey's mouth against his, the faint scratch of well-shaved whiskers against his jaw.

"It may not be the most socially precedented arrangement," Jersey says, when they all break apart at last, long minutes and many kisses later, all three rumpled and breathless. "But I feel we could manage, Mr Pope, if you were to visit my country house often, where we would naturally require the services of a my secretary…" He doesn't bother to finish the sentence, his meaning is plain enough.

Alex begins to feel cool reason seeping back into his brain, and a flutter of unease. They still have some secrets to tackle, and- he wants this, he does, oh, so badly, but not if what Moriarty wants is a mere roll in the hay, a fling with men too far down the social ladder to object when he discards them.

"How long for?" he asks, trying to keep his tone level and not demanding.

Moriarty looks confused, and like most expressions, it's alarmingly fetching. "As long as you like. I- Lipshaw, Alex, _surely_ you realise I have no interest in any others, and nor have I for quite some time. I had resigned myself to bachelorhood."

"Ah," Alex says, trying not to grin too broadly or too obviously. Now, so long as Moriarty is not so thoroughly committed to the male gender that he cannot appreciate the female, now it simply must work out for them. "I do believe Mr Pope has something to tell you."

Thoroughly on the spot herself now, Cassadee turns a bright pink under their collective gaze.

And then, with the same casual insouciance which has carried her out of - and into - far more trouble than most any other young ladies of her age or station, she reaches out her hand to shake and says, "Mr Moriarty? I don't believe we've been properly introduced. I'm Lady Cassadee Pope."

"You're joking," Moriarty says blankly.

Cassadee's chin comes up and she gives him her most regal stare. "Would you like me to take off this shirt and prove it, then?"

"No- well, yes, but- no!" Moriarty says. "Are you- no, of course you're telling the truth. That certainly explains more than it doesn't."

He seems to be thinking hard for a few moments after that stunning revelation.

"Would it be too forward," he says carefully, "of me to ask for your hand in marriage? It is only that I think our chances of escaping to the countryside to live a life of scandalous excess might be rather curtailed by your father challenging me to a duel, you see."

"Well, if you put it that way," Cassadee said, "I suppose I had better accept, then."

"That was quite the least romantic proposal I've ever heard of," Alex said, feeling unaccountably left out, even though there was obviously no way that he could marry either of them.

"I'll get on my knees for you later," Jersey said, then, with a hint of wicked promise in his eyes, and Cassadee laughed delightedly, and Alex decided that, perhaps, they could have a happily ever after of their own after all.

* * *


End file.
